Tag Archives: haibun

Summer Solstice

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The first day of summer dawns hot and dry; not like it used to here in the moderate Pacific Northwest of my youth. The air outside is stifling, so I stay indoors listening to the hum of the fan and worrying about the young plants in my nature garden. The shrubs and berries and grasses – all native to this area – are not supposed to need supplemental watering because they are acclimated to thrive in their natural environment.

But this climate, altered to unnatural heat and drought, is not what Mother Nature signed on for when she gave us the delicate mosses and ferns, the soft evergreen needles, the supple, shiny leaves of shrubs like snowbrush and Oregon grape.

This evening a breeze will pick up and give at least the illusion of coolness to the air. I will visit the garden to make sure the ladybugs, bees and butterflies have water in the little pool I made for them. And I will utter an apology on behalf of my species for the damages this planet has endured. The rain, when it comes, will be happily welcomed.

Imperceptibly,

summer solstice pendulum

pauses, shifts, recedes.

dVerse haibun Monday: Solstice I

Spring Harvest

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As my native habitat garden takes shape, I’ve been drawn to it almost daily. In the wet fall I checked for problematic standing water at the base of the young crabapple tree and marveled at the resilience of rain-battered kinnikinnick. In winter I fretted over snow-covered Oregon grape and ice-encased flowering currant.

As spring unfolded, I searched bare twigs for the slightest hint of green, watched tiny sprigs rise from the ground and swell into verdant foliage; and now – finally – flowers are maturing, bugs are pollinating and wild strawberries are sending out runners to claim yet more ground.  

I always considered autumn to be my favorite season with its crisp rain-filtered air, crunchy carpets of fallen leaves and trees dressed in flame-inspired palettes. Now, I believe my favorite season is whichever currently holds sway over my everchanging garden.

lupines point skyward

blooming flower moon beckons

who will eclipse whom?

For dVerse poets Haibun Monday: flower moon.

kinnikinnick
Oregon grape
red flowering currant
wild strawberries
large leaved lupine

Newborn

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You slip into the crook of my arm as I recline on the sofa, your diapered bottom cradled like a football. I can feel your body beneath my hand rise and fall with your breathing. You – most likely – can hear my heartbeat as your head rests peacefully on my chest. I could, I think, sit like this forever.

Budding hearts of spring.

All is new; life pulses through

Veins and vines and views.

______________________

dVerse haibun: The Present Moment

Fleeting Flowers

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They are blooming now, the cherry blossoms. I see them on FaceBook and Istagram. I know they are across the river in city parks, and up the road six or seven miles in the neighborhood where I used to live.

But here in COVID times, I do not find myself across the river or up the road much. Not to worry, though. In my own back yard, however briefly they can withstand the March rains and wind, my flowering quince regale me with their fleeting blossoms.

Don’t blink! They fade fast.

yesterday’s blossoms become

today’s confetti

dVerse haibun Monday: cherry blossoms

restoration

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The idea of the new landscape undertaking was to plant only native species and ultimately do away with all conventional lawn surrounding my house. I began with my side yard, covering the grass and weeds with cardboard and spreading layers of wood chips over that. The scrawny “twigs” of bare root shrub and tree plantings I obtained from the soil and water conservation district barely looked alive. By the time I finished prepping and planting, my side yard resembled a miniature clear cut logging site. Not auspicious.

As the year progressed, some plants grew and blossomed, some appeared to die down and later surprised me with renewed growth, and some just flat out died. A work in progress, for sure, but it’s always fascinating to step around the corner of my house and see how my project is unfolding.

Can nature restore what my predecessors spent centuries grooming to our vain human whims?  And will my tenth of an acre make a difference in the grand scheme of wildlife preservation? I don’t know, but…  it’s a beginning.

bare root crab apple
first autumn foliage drops
mere inches to ground

dVerse haibun Monday: New beginnings

Room to Think

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cedar bench

“Welcome to my house!” The little boy pulls aside a low hanging branch and gestures into the shadow of an old growth cedar tree.

“What a lovely home!” I look around the imaginary room: the evergreen walls, the mossy drapes, the soft carpet of aromatic brown needles. The boy grins.

“And that’s your house over there!” He points to another tree, and then to a fallen limb. “And this is your thinking bench.”

“My thinking bench?”

“Yes. When you want to think about things, you can come out here and sit on this bench.” I sit on the limb and marvel at this three-year-old’s creativity, and it occurs to me that every home could likely benefit from a thinking bench. See? It’s got me thinking already.

roughhewn cedar bench
space to breathe unfinished thoughts
warm breeze stirs the mind

dVerse open link night #267

Please Fasten Your Seat Belts

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jet1

Today it is cold, wet and windy outside. From my living room, I watch jets coming in low as they approach PDX three miles to the south of my home. Usually they are high up and flying due south when they pass overhead, but with high winds, they must change their approach to an alternate runway, and so they pass across the view from my front window in a westerly direction, appearing almost as low as the trees.

It is January. A new year, a new decade no less. And with my birthday falling within the first week of the month, I face a triple mile post of time marked, and the reckoning that elicits. Have I spent the past year well? Wisely? And what will I do with this blank slate of 2020?

I will fly high, I vow, when conditions allow. I will be open to alternate approaches when circumstances turn dicey. And even through turbulence, I’ll take full advantage of the journey. because that’s the way of the determined traveler. I’m buckling up for 2020!

winter winds bluster
branches swing on steadfast trees
holding through the storm

jet2

For dVerse Challenge: Beginning (again) ~ Haibun

Lost and Found

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spider and bug

The spider works quickly to get the larger insect wrapped within its web. The insect doesn’t struggle; it may be dead. But the web is in tatters and shakes violently every time the spider moves. I watch the action, hoping the spider secures its hard-won meal before the web gives out.

Progress is slow, and my attention wavers. When I check back, the spider is sitting motionless in its sparse web, and the big catch-of-the-day is nowhere in sight. Has it fallen from the web? After all the spider’s hard work? I am compelled to make it right, find the bug. Maybe I can stick it back on the web somehow.

I part the plants beneath the spider’s web, and sure enough, there it is. Still wrapped in webbing. Still dead. But… moving? Two small ants have taken a hold of the hapless bug and are hauling it off as their own pre-wrapped prize. I am too late. Nature has already made it right.

nature’s web pulled taught
broken strands and gaping holes
mend on, weavers, mend

dVerse Haibun Monday — Lost and Found: Nature’s Magic

Alone Time

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sick chuly

Chules is sick today. I can hear his tummy roiling from across the room. He’s been in- and outside at least a dozen times since morning. When I let him out, he beelines to the side yard fence, and tries to eat the taller grass to ease his stomach pain. Not an easy task for a canine whose teeth are not suited to grazing on plants.

Back inside, Chules disappears into my bedroom to rest in solitude. He likes alone time, even when he’s feeling well. After a couple of hours I go looking for him, and find him on the bed, resting his head on my pillow. This is atypical of him; he usually naps on the floor behind my rocking chair. I sit with him and gently pull my fingers through his soft fur. He doesn’t move, but his watery eyes close drowsily. I kiss his head and leave to let him sleep.

In the living room, I retire to the couch with a mystery book I’ve been reading. I like my alone time, too, but today I can’t relax. Soon I hear Chules padding down the hallway. He hops up on the couch and curls up next to me. I pat his backside and return to my book, feeling more at ease now. Sometimes, it’s just better to spend alone time together.

stunted winter grass
green, though growth eludes the eye
grazers are not fooled

dVerse Haibun Monday: Solitude

dog days of winter

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mud2

The gravel path encircling the dog park is churned to mud. Wood chips, spread last season to fill in low spots, now form a waterlogged sponge underfoot. The sky, pale blue and cloudless, does not belie that we are in mid-dreary-chilly January. It bears a sense of oppression, making one inclined to slouch when walking, as if to clear a low ceiling.

The dogs don’t seem to mind the damp chill. Puddles, gritty mud, soggy clumps of sod… it’s all the same to their weather-hardened paws. There are balls to chase, fence posts to water and all manner of smells to sniff.

After a couple of plodding loops around the field, I catch up to my pup, who has paused to stick his nose up a Doberman’s butt. I latch the leash to his collar and we head out of the park. I sidestep pools of standing water, morosely noting that the rainy season has only just begun. My dog plows straight through the water, tongue flopping, slobber hanging off his chin. He — obviously — has failed to notice that we are in mid-fricking-depressing January.

gnarled bare tree shivers
arthritic branch points skyward
lays blame on winter

mud1

dVerse Haibun Monday: January